


A Little Extra Care

by Skalidra



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Breathplay, Genderfluid Character, High Heels, M/M, Master/Slave, No Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 19:36:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9840905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: Tim's not actually in the market for a new slave when he runs across an interesting one at a society party. Tall, handsome, but bigger than most slaves that aren't specifically designated for hard labor. And when that slave meets his eyes for a moment? Well, now he'sreallyinterested.





	

**Author's Note:**

> And, the third and final day I did for the Valentine's JayTim week! The prompts for this one were 'Backseat/High Heels', and my mind... did a thing. As it does. (Hi; I write weird AUs. Nice to meet you.) Enjoy!

Tim's not actually in the market for a new slave when he sees the man. The ones he has are more than good enough, happy to serve him and happy to be cared for in return. They know all of his peculiarities, all of his tastes, all of his preferences… Training a new slave is a job best done when utterly prepared for it, not on the fly, and Tim simply doesn't _need_ another one. He doesn't want to become one of those owners with a dozen slaves, half of which have no actual use except to look pretty and smile as convincingly as possible.

Part of owning a slave, part of _caring_ for a slave, is giving them something to do. Periods of inactivity are fine, and free time is _necessary_ , but slaves need to have purposes or they get bored, and bored slaves are prone to acting out. Discipline should be avoided except when absolutely required, not done as a matter of course. Slaves should _want_ to serve; they should be happy to.

The party he's at is technically an auction, a showing of slaves from a dozen different companies, all sleek, smooth skin and specialized skills, but functionally he's there just to be there. Places like this are excellent for networking, and a lot more gets done here than simple slave purchases. Kon doesn't like the fancy-society parties so his arm is bare of accompaniment, but he's already had to politely decline a few offers for companionship for the night. He'll have to politely accept one at some point; show his favor somewhere that it matters.

His name is good enough for that, but he's done his best to look the part of his public persona too. The black suit he's wearing is fitted tighter than almost any men would wear it, the shirt beneath blood red and open at his collar to show the hollow of his throat. It's the same color as his nails, the lipstick accentuating his mouth, and the high, thin heels he's wearing. His feet will hurt before the end of the night, but that's a familiar sort of pain.

He's making a for-show, slow round of the wares on display when he comes across a male slave, nude apart from a pair of small, black shorts. Big; at least a foot taller than any other slave on display here, and more obviously muscular as well. Most of the slaves the companies have brought are service slaves; bed-warmers, cooks, companions, etc. But a few, apparently including this one, are made for harder labor. Bodyguards are popular right now, and there are more than a few owners who would _like_ to have a slave as big as this to please them, even if that isn't his intended purpose.

The other differences are that those muscular, large arms are cuffed behind his back, where almost all the other slaves are free, and there's a muzzle caging his mouth, leaving him free to barely part it but little more. Interesting enough to draw Tim's attention, and as Kon can attest, he likes the sight of muscle in his slaves. Admittedly, he's not quite sure that he's ever seen one quite this big, at least not one that's for sale.

The slave's still fairly young, early twenties perhaps, and he has a lovely shade of blue-green eyes that stand out against the relative paleness of his skin and the black of his short hair. He's standing still, tall, gaze lowered to the floor, but apart from the other slaves this company is showing. Understandable; he'd be like a ram standing among a bunch of sheep if he were mixed in with the flirting, smooth things the company has artfully lounging across a collection of couches.

Tim takes a sip of his champagne, and then approaches. The slave's gaze flicks up at the sound of his heels clicking across the marbled floor, but lowers again before they've even properly met his eyes. Not perfect training, but adequate enough for a harder-labor slave; they need to be somewhat less obedient than more classic training allows for, after all. Thus, probably, the reason for the restraints.

"Ah," one of the representatives standing nearby says, with a business-smile. "You've seen something that interests you, hm?"

He smiles back at the man for a moment. "Maybe," he allows.

"He's a bit rougher than our usual stock," the man allows, stepping up right next to the slave. "Six feet even, just under two hundred pounds, with our training customized to your desire and your money back guaranteed if you find him even slightly unsatisfactory." One finger flicks the slave's chin up, lifting his head. This time the eyes stay lowered. "Buy him, sign our contracts, and we can turn him into any sort of slave you desire, sir."

"And his training so far?"

"Well, let me tell you, this slave is a masterpiece of different training. He's—”

"I run my own company, own major shares in two of your biggest competitors, and know every trick of your business inside and out," he interrupts, and then smiles at the representative's sudden silence and tighter expression. "I didn't ask you to sell him to me; show me his file and I'll decide for myself."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the slave's mouth curl into a tiny smirk for a fraction of a second.

The representative doesn't quite stammer, but he is a little bit clumsy about retrieving the tablet from the table they have set up. Tim takes it with a small smile, cradling it in the crook of his free arm and taking another small sip of his champagne as he begins to page through the information. The stats the representative rattled off seem to be correct, and his medical report says there are no problems with him. No genetic defects, apart from a mention of his father having alcoholic tendencies. Something to watch out for, though any owner that would let their slave develop an addiction deserves every single consequence of that addiction. It's simply neglectful care.

The slave, Jason Peter Todd, has some basic combat training (almost no company except security-specific ones will fully train a slave in combat; not until they're bought and that's their stated purpose), a collection of basic skills, a marked aptitude for cooking, though they didn't expand on that particular training, and a note in his file that specifically recommends against the use of him for pleasure.

"Why is it recommended he not be used as a bed-warmer?" he asks, with an idle flick of his gaze up to the at-attention representative.

There's a moment of unease, but a quick recovery. "There are several reports deeper in the file," the man says, with a glance towards Jason, "but the simple version is that he didn't behave when he was being trained for it. He took to all the skills very well, and he never harmed anyone, but he didn't follow commands as reliably in that particular scenario. It was decided that pleasure was not a good fit to his personality, so the training was never finished. You could still use him for such activities, but we would recommend against it."

"Is that so?"

He pages down, finding the reports and reading the details of them. His distaste at the methods of discipline used threaten to show through, but he breathes it away and just offers a small smile instead. The version offered by the representative is true enough, but he doesn't think that quite tells the whole story. True, slaves are likely to act out when used for activities or jobs that they aren't suited for, but usually that extends to being slow to learn and not particularly good at the task itself. Slaves rarely learn things quickly, and well, but continue to be disobedient when exposed to them.

He finishes reading through the reports, and there's one key bit of information missing. One thing that isn't accounted for in all of the information and stats.

"And the reason for the cuffs and the muzzle?" he asks bluntly, as he hands the tablet back.

It's taken, smoothly, and the representative gives a very false smile and lies, "He's simply a rather imposing figure, and we thought the guests would feel more comfortable around him if he were restrained."

Tim raises an eyebrow, and then turns his attention to the slave. "Jason."

A flicker of that blue-green gaze up to him, and then an inclination of his head. There's no answer, of course, but Tim's confident he has the slave's attention.

"Is that the truth, Jason?"

The representative gives a sound of protest but he ignores it, keeps his gaze on Jason, who looks just a bit startled. Then, with a brief, sideways glance towards the seller, Jason gives a slow shake of his head. The face the representative makes is really quite priceless, something between anger and a desperate attempt not to show that anger and still smile at him, and the fact that Jason doesn't pull away or betray any sort of fear for it means he's not afraid of the now clearly inevitable discipline. Interesting.

A suspicion takes root in his mind.

"Would you like to tell me the reason that isn't a for-sales lie?" Tim asks, with a much smoother smile. "I feel I should remind you that hiding evidence of any aggression on the part of a slave is a fairly major breach of sales laws."

The man's fingers are tight on the tablet, smile flickering but still clinging to his face. His voice is utterly serious, though, when he says, "This slave has never shown aggression past the earliest stages of his training. He has the same tendency for disobedience at showings as what was mentioned earlier. Nothing overt, nothing harmful to others, but we've found that restraints keep him more focused and make him faster to respond. This is a pure sales issue, Mr. Drake; it will have absolutely no bearing on his performance as a slave in your household."

"And what if I want to show him more privately, among friends or colleagues? Or did that thought never occur to you?" This time the representative does stammer, and he gives it a moment before flicking his hand in dismissal. "Stop. When he has these… lapses of focus, at shows, I assume that some of the same disciplinary methods were used as what was noted in his file?"

It takes another moment for the man to recover enough to confirm, "Yes. He would still be wearing slave-bracelets, as per regulations. All of ours are equipped with shock implementation, so disobedience would earn a minor shock. If it continued, he might receive a light beating with the promise of future discipline once the show is finished. Nothing major, sir. The worst he's ever done at a show was speak out of turn; nothing that would deserve any more public repercussion than that."

"Sounds about right," he murmurs to himself, looking back at Jason's mostly-lowered eyes. He raises his voice a bit as he asks, for the sake of confirmation, "Is that true, Jason?"

This time, there's a nod. The eyes flick, momentarily, up to meet his, then flicker down again. Almost like baiting. Slight, purposeful disobedience. That would get him in quite a bit of trouble with most owners.

The decision comes without true input from the rest of his brain, and he finds himself saying, "I'll take him." A beat, and then he gives a sharp smile and adds, "I'm sure you can give me a discount, given my position and your previous behavior that is. Don't you agree?"

More stammering, but he keeps his smile, keeps his coolly amused stare fixed, and finally gets a resigned, forcibly cheerful, "Yes, Mr. Drake. Let me just pull up the forms."

"Excellent." He steps closer to Jason, makes sure to draw his attention with a flicker of fingers, pulling those blue-green eyes up an inch before he says, "Jason, if you're more comfortable kneeling, go ahead. You're not on display anymore."

He watches out of the corner of his eye as he steps to the side, following the representative over to the sales table. Jason, after a moment, does sink down to his knees, head dipping a few inches to a more natural and at-rest angle. Tim sips his drink, and settles in to negotiate with the representative.

It only takes a few more smiles, and not-so-veiled threats, to cut Jason's sale price nearly in half. Especially after he points out that a slave with disobedience issues, however minor, shouldn't be being sold at a party like this, and outright hiding that could be enough to get them banned from any future gatherings. After all, even if it was contested, who's going to believe a salesman over the owner of Drake Industries and all its accompanying properties?

The paperwork is printed right there at the table for him to neatly sign his name across, and fill out the basics of his information, while the representative — _Nathan,_ he finds out, in the course of his not-so-veiled threats — fits a standard collar around Jason's throat and affixes it to an equally basic leash. He'll throw it all out when he gets home, but he didn't come equipped to buy a slave tonight and the law requires that owned slaves be collared, so this will have to do for now.

He notices, idly, that Nathan leaves the cuffs and muzzle on Jason; perhaps as a safeguard against Jason doing anything between here and his car to jeopardize this. They'll be handy, so he doesn't complain.

"Alright, Mr. Drake, that looks like it's all set." The smile that Nathan gives is shaky, but also just shy of blatantly relieved to be done with him. "Thank you for your business, sir."

He smiles back, doesn't offer anything past that as he coils the end of the leash around the fingers of his free hand and steps back to look at Jason. "With me," he orders, keeping his voice low. Many owners would tug on the leash, pull him up, but Tim keeps it loose. No need to try and prove dominance over a slave that doesn't need it.

Jason rocks back up to his feet, a graceful movement that's not at all hampered by the cuffs locking his arms behind his back. He falls back into proper posture — head lifted, gaze down, shoulders straight — and Tim gives a small smile. When he walks towards the exit, each click of his heels announcing his presence, Jason follows him. He deposits his glass on a table on the way, ignoring everyone watching his passage with the ease of practice. He's been on top of most of the world for a long time, and he knows how to handle attention.

The night air is cool, so he goes immediately to the valet, giving a smile and requesting his driver be informed to bring the car around. If he's cool, within the layers of his shirt and the fitted jacket over it, he can only imagine how cold Jason must be, given the utter lack of protection. He won't show it, of course, but just because slaves are trained to ignore discomfort in service of their masters doesn't mean the discomfort doesn't exist. Tim doesn't want to make Jason wait in the cold any longer than necessary.

It only takes a couple of minutes, and in the meantime he winds the leash around his fingers again, playing with the length of it and determining exactly how far back Jason is standing. Two feet; a preferred length but one that requires fairly extreme focus, considering that one lapse could send a slave crashing into the back of their owner. The company he bought from may be idiots, but they teach protocol well. Or, maybe Jason just fell into it naturally.

His file did say he was sold to the company quite young; perhaps young enough that he doesn't remember much of anything before this life. A blessing, really. The older a new slave, the harder for them to adjust to the life and the less they can be trained. Even those who go willingly at older ages are rarely good for more than basic work, owned by some large company or another. Specialized slaves, especially the ones fit for richer clientele, are usually owned since they were children, if not birth.

Even then, some people simply aren't built for it.

When his car pulls up, and the driver circles around to open the door for him, he takes Jason with him to that door. "You won't be in the trunk," he explains, taking the initiative since Jason isn't yet capable of voicing that inevitable question. "You'll be secured, but I prefer my slaves to be where I can see them when they travel with me." He steps aside, and tips his head towards the interior of the limo. "On the floor; put your back to the front seats." He also glances to his driver, as Jason shifts forward, and orders, "Help him if necessary; it might be awkward with his hands cuffed."

Jason doesn't end up needing help. He slides one leg in, getting into the car with the same easy grace as he rose, and then maneuvers to lie down on the floor, back and bound arms pressing up against the bottom of the backwards-facing front seats. It's done remarkably smoothly, and his head rests easily against the floor, easing into the simple relaxation of an at-rest slave.

He smiles, climbing in after and arranging himself on the other set of seats. "Take us home," he orders. "Shut the window."

"Yes, Master Drake," the driver answers, with a smile.

The door shuts, and he leans forward and rests a hand on Jason's top shoulder, pulling him forward a few inches with gentle pressure. "I'm going to secure your cuffs to the hook here," he explains, as he works at doing just that. "I'd prefer to have leather ones, or at least something softer, but these will have to do for this time." The loop hooks into place, clicking closed with a small snap and securing Jason's wrists to the seats. He runs his fingers up the length of one bared arm, as the driver's door shuts, and then the window between them buzzes shut.

Jason's gaze is lingering on his feet, or more probably the heels he's wearing, and he smiles, stroking the smooth skin of one shoulder up to Jason's neck. His fingers graze the collar, but he ignores it entirely, combing the black hair away from Jason's forehead instead.

"I don't think we need this," he murmurs, as he undoes the strap for the cage of a muzzle. "You're not really a disobedient boy, are you, Jason?"

Jason's mouth parts at the removal of the cage, taking in a deep breath as his eyes close for a moment. A tongue sweeps out, wetting his lips, and then his head lifts up into Tim's hand. "Thank you, Master." His voice is low, as smooth as his movements but deep to match his size, the rumble of someone at least half-trained to pleasure and attraction.

The car starts, and he leans back into his seat, studying how at ease Jason looks. Certainly not the hallmark of a rebellious or disobedient slave. No, just one that needs a little... fine tuning. A little bit of extra care.

"Look at me," he orders. Jason's gaze rises, meeting his gaze and holding it, as ordered. "My name is Tim Drake," he offers. "From now on, you'll be part of my house, and I'll take care of you. In return, I ask for service. We can discuss what kind once we're home, and you can answer some questions about your training. For now, let's talk about the disobedience you've been exhibiting, shall we?"

"I can be good, sir," Jason says, with a very brief dip of his gaze.

He gives a soft smile. "And I believe that. I'm sure, for a few days, or maybe a week, you'll be an excellent, beautiful slave. Exactly as long as it takes to convince me that I want to keep you." He extends one of his feet, tilting Jason's jaw up with the toe of his heel, holding that blue-green gaze. "Then, once you're settled, once you're sure I want you to stay, you'll start pressing for what you want. You'll start pausing, start disobeying... Then, finally, I'll give you what you want, and you'll settle again. For a time. Does that sound about right?"

Jason looks a little bit startled, a little wary. Uncertain, for the first time since he saw the slave. He slides the toe of the shoe across Jason's jaw, and then pulls it away, balancing his heel on the floor of the car.

"It's alright, Jason," he says, softly. "I don't think you're disobedient by choice." He lifts his foot, and then very, very carefully fits the end of his heel into the hollow of Jason's throat, just below the collar. "I think you need something, and you disobey to get that need filled." Jason's gaze is focused, breath coming short as he applies very slight pressure, digging into the sensitive nerves. "It's why you're more grounded when you're restrained. It's why when you disobey you do it carefully, incidentally. Nothing enough to cause more than some minor discipline."

"I—” Jason cuts off, gasping as he presses his heel in a little harder.

"Tap your foot against the door if you want to stop," he demands, as he watches Jason's eyelids flicker, watches his head press back against the base of the seats. "It’s why when you were trained to give pleasure, you took to it well, until some part of you realized that it still wouldn’t give you what you needed. I think, all you really need is a little bit of extra care. I think that once you get it, you’ll be happy to serve.”

He releases the pressure, lets Jason drag in a breath, the on-display muscle of his stomach contracting as he shivers. Then, with an upwards flicker of blue-green eyes, Jason slowly arches his neck, pressing into the remaining, light pressure of his heel.

Satisfaction curls bright in his chest, and he rewards the arch by pressing his heel in, watching Jason’s face relax into something like bliss. Yes, that’s perfect. Just what he suspected, seeing that handful of reports.

“That’s it,” he praises, and gets another small shudder for it. He lifts his other foot, pressing that heel into the joint of his shoulder, picking the sensitive spot just a couple inches down, just in from his armpit. “You never needed that muzzle, or the cuffs,” he expands, as Jason gives him a slightly strained, breathless groan, eyes now firmly closed, mouth parted to quietly pant. “You just needed someone to hurt you a little bit. Just _enough_. That’s right, isn’t it?”

He pulls the heel in Jason’s throat back just enough to allow him to take another deep breath, and to realize that he expects an actual answer to his question.

“Yes, Master,” comes the almost relieved answer. “I’m sorry I tried to hide it, Master.”

“You shouldn’t have,” he agrees, “but I understand why you did. A slave with that sort of enjoyment would be trained to it and sold _for_ it, and having a truly sadistic master would be more than you want, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, Master,” Jason repeats, but his eyes _scream_ his relief at being seen for what he is.

“The company that trained you has a habit of hiring idiots,” he comments, with a dismissive flick of his fingers and a slight curl of his lip. "Slaves, like anyone else, have needs and desires. When slaves act out, it's because something is wrong. You can't simply discipline and expect to fix the core problem; a competent set of trainers could have pinpointed what you needed and made sure that you received it, instead of simply treating the effects. You have my condolences for the subpar quality of your training."

"Thank you…?"

His mouth quirks into a small smile at the questioning end, and he pulls his feet back to brace them against the floor. "You _do_ have a bit of an attitude though, don't you?" Jason's sharp little inhale is proof enough, though the flick of that gaze to the floor, the edge to how he shifts a bit, says he doesn't understand how he was seen through. "There are many ways you could have earned your discipline," he explains. "Choosing to do it through eye contact, through hesitance in obeying, and apparently through speaking out of turn, says some very interesting things about you."

Jason's gaze rises again, returning to him as he says, "I _am_ good, Master. I swear. I can be better than what you've seen."

"Oh sweetheart," he murmurs, leaning forward so he can slide his fingers over Jason's jaw, cupping his cheek and lifting his head a few inches. "I know you can, but that's not what I'm asking. I didn't buy you because I wanted some perfect, obedient little thing. I bought you because you needed more than those others were giving you, and you deserve to find a role and serve in a way that will truly satisfy you. Besides, I don't mind a bit of attitude. Now, we have a short drive ahead of us. Would you like to talk about your training, or would you like me to satisfy your need?"

Jason swallows, studying him, gaze flicking around his face as if trying to read his intention. Then his gaze dips, and he says, "Whatever you desire, Master."

"No," he snaps, sharper than anything else he's said tonight. Jason startles. "That isn't what I asked for, Jason. I know it's hard to ask for what you want, but that's what _I_ want from you. Now, do you want to talk, or do you want me to make you settle?"

The shudder he gets isn't entirely unexpected, and Jason's head twists into his hand, hiding for a moment. "I— Yes, please. I want…” There's a sharp exhale of breath, and then Jason looks up and admits, "I don't know what I want, Master."

"That's alright," he murmurs, stroking Jason's cheek with his thumb. “We have time to figure it out. You liked my heels though, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Jason breathes, and then a slight, delightful flush dusts across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. “They’re beautiful. They suit you… Master.”

“It is still ‘Master,’ ” he confirms, reading the slight hesitance. “At least today. I just get more respect and, well, _fear_ at these parties with a dash of feminine thrown into the mix. You’ll probably never see me at a party without heels, and depending on where you fit into my household, you might even help me dress for them someday. Or come with.” He gives a small smile, and confides, "I don't currently have a slave to accompany me to events like this, and you're a rather unique specimen. It might be fun to subvert expectations." He gives a parting brush of his thumb against Jason's lips, before promising, "We'll see."

Tim lifts his right foot again as he leans back, fitting the arch of the shoe over Jason's neck and bracing the sole of it, so that he can carefully press his heel back in against Jason's throat with a bit more control over the precise pressure. Breath catches, eyes flicker, and Jason tilts his chin up to offer more room.

He keeps it light for a moment, as he studies how Jason's eyes are half-lidded, still watching him. Then he explains, "I'm not going to do much. Once we've really talked I can spend some time with you; figure out exactly what you need and how to give it to you. Until then, I'm not going to push very far. But if your reactions so far are anything to go off of, I can make you float a bit, which should help you settle. Does that sound good to you, Jason?"

Jason's eyelids lift just a bit, focusing past the sensation gifted him to offer, "Yes, Master. It sounds great."

"Excellent," he praises, before he adds, "Now, relax, and trust me to take care of you. Clear?"

This time, Jason only gives him a small nod, before both eyes fully shut and he relaxes into the floor of the car, head falling back to bare his throat to Tim's heel.

"Very good, Jason. That's lovely." He leans down again, putting pressure into Jason's throat as a side effect and drawing a soft, choked gasp, so he can brush the bangs away from his face. "I think you're going to fit in just fine."


End file.
